How to Give and Take
by NightlySnow
Summary: Alfred has made huge sacrifices for his horses throughout the years, not the least of which is moving to England to work for a bitter, removed English businessman. As the 1960s draw to a close, will these two completely different men be able to resolve their differences in the shared interest of a magnificent horse, or will their combined stubbornness ultimately lead to failure?
1. Off to a Land of Pouring Rain

Bonjour! I know, I really ought to stop starting up these series. But I can't help myself, sometimes an idea just hits me and wham! there I am typing it up. And then I realize that I can't possibly fit it into a oneshot, so obviously I have to make it a multi-chapter thing.  
I do hope that you enjoy this one though. It has to do with horse racing and shtuff. Je ne sais pas pourquoi I decided to write this, or what inspired me, but it hit me like a runaway horse (hahahaha...haha...ha...) so here we are. Enjoy!

_Disclaimer: I don't own the Hetalia franchise, so the vast majority of characters that will be starring in this work are not my property._

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**Off to a Land of Pouring Rain**

_"I don't like people," said Velvet. "... I only like horses." _

**―Enid Bagnold, _National Velvet_**

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The first time Alfred saw Arthur was at the Santa Anita Handicap in California United States. The man, dressed impeccably in a gray-pinstriped suit, was staring absently out at the track. You could tell that he wasn't paying attention to the massive beasts working their way through the dirt, sweat glistening and darkening their necks, white foam frothing at their bit-laden mouths. His greener-than-green eyes were gazing but not seeing.

Alfred was fascinated with the silhouette this man cut against the excited people cheering about him. Screams and yells and curses were sailing through the air, like cannon fire from ships, but they flew right over this removed man, curving around his stoic figure.

Alfred did eventually return his eyes to the track, locking and tracking on the horses that he had spent his life surrounded by. The 1967 Santa Anita Handicap was claimed by the horse Hill Rise. Alfred felt a flicker of disappointment that the animal he'd betted on hadn't gotten the first place title, but he eventually pushed it aside. He hadn't lain down that much money, two bucks in total.

When he returned his blue gaze to where the man with wild blond hair had been, he noticed only the absence of the man's body from the crowd of disappointed and elated spectators. Alfred collected himself, standing in his moccasin-clad feet, as was the fashion of the late '60s, his button down, patterned shirt stretching across a chest toned and muscled from working with horses, dark blue Levis hanging comfortably on his frame.

He waited until the majority of the people who had been packed into the newly renovated Santa Anita racetrack had flooded out before working his way down the concrete steps that adorned the bleachers and grandstands. Once he got to the rail blockading people from hopping onto the track, he hopped easily over it, his moccasins landing securely in the firm hold of the dirt track beneath him. He shouldn't be doing this, but it was a habit he'd developed at his first race where he was running a horse he'd trained back in 1956, and so he figured, why the hell not. If he could do it when he was sixteen, why not at twenty-eight.

After checking that the coast was clear, he began to walk the track, tucking his hands into the front pockets of his jeans, his eyes focused on the clumped dirt beneath his feet. He wasn't walking where the horses had run, choosing instead to forge a path of his own on the untouched area of the track that was bordering the opposite fence.

He didn't realize that he had company until he heard someone clearing their throat behind him. He paused then, working his hands nervously out of his pockets and closing his eyes a moment before turning to face the other person.

It was the man from before, that man with the empty green eyes, hidden back in a gray pinstriped suit. Alfred waited for him to speak first, since he'd felt such a pressing need to interrupt him on his traditional walk around the track.

"Might I ask what you're doing?" spoke the man, momentarily startling Alfred with the British accent that was flavoring each word.

"Just walking the track, sir," was Alfred's response, making a motion that implied that he intended to resume his activity when this man spoke up again.

"I'm Arthur," he said, awkwardly, confusing Alfred as to why he was trying to start a conversation with a man who was very obviously not interested in participating. But, Alfred, being the gentleman that he was raised to be, forced himself to take part.

"I'm Alfred." Then an uncertain pause, "Er, not to be rude, sir, but why are you talking to me?"

"I've heard about you, Alfred," said Arthur, taking a few more steps to make himself level with the taller horse trainer. "I have heard that you have a way about you, an aura of some sort that appeals to horses." He paused, waiting for Alfred to slowly nod his head in confirmation of what Arthur was saying. "I was hoping that you wouldn't mind accompanying me back to England so that you might work your sorcery on my own racehorses," he pushed it all out in a rush of words, but Alfred was able to understand all of it.

The American's eyes widened in complete and utter surprise. "What the hell?" he snapped, losing all attempts at using decorum, "You can't just walk up to someone and ask if they would like to go with you back to England, man! That's so wrong. I have a life, ya know," he said, giving him an injured, defensive look. "Besides, I'm already working for someone."

"That's already been dealt with. He says he is very pleased to relinquish you so that I may have you for my own trainer. Your pay would be double what it is now," he said, running over Alfred's attempts to interrupt him.

Alfred's jaw just hung open after Arthur complete his statement, his mind automatically beginning to run the numbers. That would be a lot. That would be close to roughly 250,000 a year. Now Alfred was rethinking things.

"Ya know, I'm not a person's property, Arthur, so I'm not obligated to accept your proposal. But," he enunciated this word clearly and loudly, understanding that Arthur was going to say something, judged by the Brit's parting mouth, "I will accept your offer. I've never been to England before, and I know the Beatles hail from across the pond, so why not?" he shrugged, though he could list several reasons as to 'why not.'

A slow, pleased smile spread along Arthur's lips, and he reached out to grip Alfred's upper arm with a firm hold, "Wonderful, he relinquished the limb in favor of holding his right hand out in front of him. "So we have a deal?"

Alfred didn't even think twice before he was sliding his own hand through the proffered one, wrapping his long digits around to give a firm handshake. "Yes, we have a deal," he responded, a brilliant smile seizing his features. "What time are we leaving?"

Arthur pulled out an old-fashioned pocket watch, forcing Alfred to hold back a snicker.

"In about three hours, actually." He replied languidly, snapping the golden contraption closed and sliding it back into his breast pocket.

At those simple words, a jaunty stream of curse words burst forth from Alfred's mouth, and he was slipping over the rail around the track yelling that he'd meet Arthur at the barn when he was ready to leave. He had some, rather a lot, of packing to do, and Arthur had not given him a particularly ample time frame for doing it.

Arthur watched the energetic young American sprint out of the arena, his green eyes watching the very toned butt that was slowly distancing itself from him. Yes, he had to say, this would be an interesting next few years. Who knew, maybe he'd actually start watching the races that his horses were running.

True to both of their words, Arthur and Alfred met with one another outside of the barn. The activity that bustled around them was one of lazy happiness. The grooms were happy that the major hubbub leading up to the Handicap was over, the jockeys were pleased that they didn't have to stress over what to do on the track anymore, and horses were just happy to be back in their stalls, surrounded by food, and some nice, comfortable hay to rest on. Their hides were gleaming in the burnished gold of the setting sun, comfortable waves of the soft light resting on the muscles that were covered with the smooth black, chestnut, white pelts of the thoroughbreds.

Before Arthur got there, Alfred allowed himself to take a deep inhale of the familiar musky stable air; that traditional smell of the horses, the odor of the hay; the chirping of the crickets around the stalls, the comfortable buzz of grooms' conversations, the angry mutterings of the trainers.

He'd worked here, at the Santa Anita track, for about five years, and had been a trainer handed off to anyone who needed their horse to get whipped into shape, and quick. So leaving was going to be a whole new milestone for him.

Then he heard the sound of shoes thunking on packed dirt behind him, and he turned to face Arthur. The British man could see the wisps of remembrance hiding in Alfred's gentle blue eyes. But he forced himself not to feel any sympathy for this character.

"Come along then, I have a cab waiting to take us to the airport," he said motioning for the American to make his way over to the idling cab, which was, actually, a limo. Alfred cocked one doubtful eyebrow at the green-eyed Brit before chucking his suitcase in the truck and sliding in. He didn't have a lot to speak of in the way of material possessions, so packing wasn't necessarily difficult. He was a bit dramatic sometimes, that was all.

Once Arthur had clambered in, the driver purred the limousine into motion, and they began their trek to England.

For Alfred, arriving in this country was earth-shattering. There was so much different to him, so many new things to absorb. The streets were driven by cars that were heading in different directions than they would in the United States. The British pound was exchanging hands with mumbled whispers tinged with accents.

The London airport was the one they flew into, which meant that there would be a bit of a drive to reach Arthur's house and stables. The flight had been thoroughly uneventful. Alfred had stared out the window the majority of the time, even if there was nothing to see there but white cloud cover and cool blue water. He wasn't much of a type to read books, and besides, he didn't currently have any with him to entertain himself with anyway. He'd tried drumming out a beat on the food tray, but that caused both Arthur and the woman sitting in front of him to turn and give him reprimanding glares. So, feeling much like a scolded child, he'd resorted to the very last form of entertainment out there: the sky they were flying in.

By the time they'd gotten his suitcase and into the limo, it was close to dinner time. But Arthur was unwilling to pull over and get a bite to eat, adamant in his refusals, claiming that he had some business to take care of upon their arrival at his home. So Alfred was forced to sit there, his stomach grumbling and whining for some food, while they drove the long, one and a half hour drive to Arthur's little ranch thing. Or at least that's what Alfred assumed it was.

The car pulled into the gravel drive, jolting Alfred awake, his head lifting from where it had rested on the window. His inquisitive, crystal-blue eyes slowly took in the sprawling ranch in front of him. The house itself wasn't that grand, surprisingly enough. It had a flat face, and was made of rocks. There were roughly six separate windows stuck periodically into the front of it, all arching around a dark brown, wooden door. This door had a tiny little doorstep, and no cover, or overhang whatsoever. Alfred thought that this was a bit of an inconvenience, but he didn't voice as much. The stables were a ways off from the house, he could see roughly the design and shape of it. It was a pure white, with a hexagonal shape to it. The roof was arching in two gray slabs that were connected with one another at the top. The building, though the majority was white, was also slowly getting overrun by ivy. The greedy green plant was grasping at the sides and front of the barn, adding a cheerful sort of quaintness to the whole thing.

Alfred was excited to see what the insides looked like, the important stuff. But first, Arthur made him walk into the house and put his stuff in the room appointed for him.

Though the house didn't look like much from the outside, the inside was another story. The walls were all covered with sensible wallpaper, bleak and gray. The floors were a solid hardwood and the rooms organized and clean. Evidently, this man wasn't keeping up with the latest fashions. Well, either that, or he wasn't interested in them. Alfred would put money on the latter.

A set of narrow stairs led up to the second floor where the bedrooms were located. There were about four up there, but Alfred didn't get to peek at them as he was led directly to one further down the hallway. When the door opened, he was greeted with the rather pleasant sight of a king sized bed. There was a white blanket resting, folded, at the foot of the bed, embroidered at the edges with fancy curlicues of birds and rabbits. Alfred raised an eyebrow and turned, askance, to the Brit next to him, but Arthur refused to give a spoken answer. His flaming cheeks spoke for him when it came to that. The comforter itself was a coffee brown, and plain. But Alfred was okay with that, he liked simple. Simple was good. There was a darker brown rug resting beneath the bed, and a chestnut side table next to it, where the lamp was sitting, throwing off its warm yellow light through its darker yellow lampshade. The walls were still gray in here, making the space a little disjointed, but not overtly soon. And the caketopper to it all was the view that was allowed him. There were evidently windows on the sides of the house, as this one gave a direct view to the stables and the paddock behind them. Alfred wanted to squeal and screech and jump up and down, but he restrained himself. "Thanks dude," he said finally, grinning cheerfully over at Arthur.

Arthur, upon seeing the approval on Alfred's face, relaxed incrementally. That was good, he'd been stressing the entire plane ride over how this horse trainer would take to his living arrangements. He adapted unnaturally well, but who was Arthur to judge.

"Excellent," he said, clearing his throat, "I'm glad that you're pleased with your accommodations. It is fair of me to assume that you would like to see the stables next, yes?" he asked Alfred, not exactly wanting to go over there himself.

Alfred nodded his head eagerly in reaction. All thoughts of hunger had fled his mind now at the new things he'd come in contact with. His mother always had told him that he had the memory of a goldfish and the attention span of a squirrel. "Hell yes!" he said, jumping slightly to do a fistpump in the air.

And not for the first time, Arthur wondered why he'd taken this dolt to his home.

"Well, than one of the stable boys will take you over," he said, clearing his throat uncomfortably before exiting the room. Alfred's fist lowered, confusion making him lose a bit of his exuberance.

"I don't…" he trailed off, but the stablehand that Arthur had spoken of was already at the door.

"Good evening!" spoke up the lad, his blond hair shining gold in the light of the side table lamp. "My name's Peter, what about yours?" he asked him, a childlike excitement marking his face.

Alfred grinned, happy to have someone he could relate to for once. "Alfred, Alfred Jones." He said, walking over to the boy with those strange, innocently sapphire-like eyes.

"It's nice to meet you, Mr. Jones! Let me show you to the stables."

And so they walked, well, in Peter's case skipped, over to the place where Alfred would be spending the majority of his time in England. The grass around the dirt path leading to the barn was fresh and green, presumably from all the rain that England was rumored to receive.

Walking into the stables, he was blasted with the change in temperature. It was certainly cooler than it was outside. They were on the verge of summer, it being March and all, and so the air conditioning was being used a bit more often. After that initial surprise, Alfred got to really take a look around, and he liked what he saw.

The floors were clean, concrete, and without a slope. Each stall was well maintained, and the edges were covered with metal to keep the horses from gnawing on the wood. There was an opening for them to pop their heads out above the doors, but the locks were such that no horse could get it undone with his tongue. There were bars along the length of the stall next to the openings, about a foot long, and then there was the solid wood of the rest of the structure. The barn ceiling was high, allowing for a place to put hay and other tack that might be used for purposes other than racing and riding. Feed buckets looked proper, and guarded, water bins were all filled to the brim, and the floor of every stall was layered healthily and thickly with hay. It was quite literally a horse's haven. The tack room was clean, each piece of equipment shined and greased to a polish, and in excellent condition. There were names next to the saddlepads and bridles so as not to confuse and possible spread a sickness around. The feed was in buckets with lids that rats couldn't get at. Not that there were that many rats to begin with, because, no doubt, there was a reasonably number of barncats living in the hayshed.

The only problem was, Alfred didn't see any horses. Blinking, he looked about, before turning to Peter, the question about to burst out of his mouth when the boy was already answering it.

"Most of the horses are out in the pasture sir. We have a couple of our expecting mothers in the stalls further back. They're larger, to allow more space for the birthing and stuff!" he ended with an upwards curve to his sentence. The constant upbeatedness was beginning to bear on Alfred, but he supposed that he wasn't really much different.

"Is that so? Could you show me these mares?" he asked, curiosity and intrigue making him eager to find out who the sires of their foals were. Peter obediently led him over to the two back stalls. On either side stood the mares, their bellies round and barrel-shaped with their soon-to-be-born foals. The one on Alfred's right was a lovely, jet-black mare with a white band starting in the middle of her forehead and sloping down her face before taking a sudden curve off of her muzzle, and presumably ending at her chin. She had dark, chocolate eyes that were calm and bored with their environment.

"That's Midnight's Appeal. This will be her fourth foal, one of her last I think. She was already rather old when she had her first one. Her foal was sired by Cold Climate." Alfred felt his heart drop. That was disappointing, he didn't want a famous hunter with this one. He wanted a good thoroughbred. But he couldn't completely discount the hunter horse genes. They had a great amount of stamina and dexterity. He just didn't know about speed.

The horse across from Midnight's Appeal was a gorgeous chestnut, sleek and tall. She held her head high, and her eyes looked at him with a fiery challenge. That red mane of hers was tossed haughtily in the air at his gaze, as if she knew that she had to impress him now or her foal would never be considered for a racer. Her belly wasn't as big as Midnight's, showing that she still had a ways to go.

"This is Let's Set the World on Fire," said Peter, sheepishly grinning at Alfred, "I call her Flicker. I believe it suits her better than that ridiculously long showboat name Arthur gave her. He hadn't even seen her before her named her, you know. She's only about five, so she still has some foals and years left in her. This is her first." Alfred nodded absently, delighted to the bone with the animation sparking this horse's actions.

"The foal's sire? What's his name?" he asked holding a hand out, carefully, for Flicker to sniff. He didn't want to get his fingers chomped off. The horse eyed him a moment, a sort of human intelligence hiding in those dark eyes, before gently brushing her soft muzzle against the skin of his palm. A small smile tugged at Alfred's lips. She was his favorite, beyond a doubt.

"She was bred with Dr. Fager, sir."

"Why haven't any of your horses been bred with British equine?" asked Alfred suddenly, dropping his hand from where it had been petting Flicker's muzzle.

Peter shrugged. "I don't know, Mr. Jones. You'd have to ask Mr. Kirkland that question, he's the one who handles all of those matters."

The tour of the other horses in the paddock was done in record time. They were all beautiful, and some were primed thoroughbreds. Alfred was eager to get them out on the track. But in the meantime, he had some questions for Arthur, and he liked to think that he knew exactly how to ask them.

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So, what did we think? Was it good, horrible, reasonable, honest, true, exciting, interesting, boring? You're not obligated to let me know your thoughts, but I do appreciate them. I promise that the next chapter will pick things up, on romance and on actual horse-y stuff. :3

Toodaloo! Enjoy your week!


	2. Cloudy Translucency

Now I am updating this one, and in a couple of hours, I shall update _The Trick to Remembering is Forgetting _ and then I will finally update _A Flower's Resilience._ So yay! Productiveness!

I hope you enjoy this chapter, I am fond of this story, probably because I adore horse racing.

_Disclaimer: I don't own the Hetalia franchise or any real people or horses mentioned in this work. Surprise surprise. I know._

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**Cloudy Translucency**

_"Success is stumbling from failure to failure with no loss of enthusiasm." _

**―Winston Churchill**

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When Alfred strode into Arthur's house, he was immediately assuaged by the butler. Apparently, because he'd been in the company of the owner of the house the bulter hadn't felt a need to come up to him when he first arrived. Now that he was alone, however, there was a more pressing concern to ensure that Alfred was completely and utterly comfortable. Trying valiantly to shake the insistent man off, Alfred eventually gave in and allowed the butler to take off his hat and coat. Once bereft of those two items, the American was off in a quest to find Arthur, studiously ignoring the startled cries that burst from the waiting staff around him. He was swift, and he had a goal. Unfortunately, he had no clue where Arthur would be. Slowing down as he made it to the top of the stairs, he paused a moment, scratching at his head. Snagging the upper arm of a taller looking guy with auburn hair, green eyes, and a cigar dangling out of one corner of his mouth, Alfred faltered before blazing forward to ask his question.

"Where could I find Arthur?" he asked bluntly, briskly letting go of the man's arm once he noticed the glare towards his offending hand.

"He'd be in his study," was the response, heavy in a Scottish accent. Once done answering the annoying question, the man slipped past. Alfred sincerely hoped that he wasn't waiting staff of some nature, with his horrendous manners.

Without much more knowledge other than knowing that Arthur was in his study, wherever the hell that was, Alfred commenced his search for the room. He went back downstairs and proceeded to make his way through the house, from east to west, opening up every door and peering inside. He knew it was rude, and very intrusive, but he needed questions answered, and he was notoriously impatient back at Santa Anita.

He finally happened upon Arthur when he opened what felt like the umpteenth door on the ground floor. Grinning victoriously, Alfred stepped into the room, dutifully ignoring the irritated glare sent his way by the Englishman. Looking about the space, he noticed that there was practically no wall to be seen; it was all covered by bookshelves which were groaning with the weight of the literary pieces adorning their shelves. Wandering over to one, he leaned closer to inspect the title, his hands stuffed into his pockets. It was an older piece, dusty and with _Sherlock Holmes _embossed in gold on the spine. Alfred was reaching forward to touch it when a sharp cough snapped him away from the shelf.

Arthur was standing there, giving him a huffy expression. "When you're _quite_ finished touching my things, do feel free to tell me why you've decided to barge in here like some wily bear," he said, his voice suspicious and harsh.

Crinkling his nose at the Brit's tone, Alfred ran a hand through his hair nervously. "Ah, well, I was directed here by some Scottish guy." He shrugged, not noticing the look of contempt that graced Arthur's face at the mention of the man. "And I came here to ask why you haven't bred any of your horses with English thoroughbreds, and why you named a horse 'Let's Set the World on Fire' and why you don't seem to like your horses and why you wouldn't accompany me to the stable and-" he was cut off by Arthur's hand, which was held up in a flat-palmed gesture, the universal sign of 'stop.'

"One at a time, Alfred," said Arthur, exhaustion leaking into his tone. "I haven't bred any of my horses with English ones because of Man o' War. He was a great sire. I aspire to have his bloodline in my stables, but unfortunately I haven't gotten to that yet. Dr. Fager was as close to a good racer as I could get. And yes, I am aware that it costs a good amount of money to do such a thing, but I don't care. I want the best, and so I will have the best." Alfred was rather taken aback at the snooty tone that accompanied the words; surprised and disgruntled.

"As for the horse name, I'm fond of the idea," and that was as much as he'd answer. Arthur wasn't interested in giving a reason as to why he isn't inclined towards his horses.

Dejected, Alfred left the room with a bow to his head. His fingesr played along the wallpapered walls as he wound his way back through the house, turning corners and sliding through doorways in a volley to find the stairs. It took asking a couple of other servants which way they were before he happened upon them and went up to his room. Dinner wouldn't be served at a table, not tonight anyway. Everyone was to dine in their rooms, as per Arthur's orders, and so Alfred had nothing to do but to wait for the food to be brought up. The sky was dark, and so he couldn't work with his horses. Sliding up from where he'd thrown himself on his bed, he cast around for a slip of paper, quickly locating it and beginning to write down the horse's names and appearance. He had a pretty fantastic memory on him when it came to equines and everything that involved them.

Next to 'Let's Set the World on Fire' he wrote _Spirited, Dr. Fager sired her foal, looks to be four months._

Midnight's Appeal got _Last foal, roughly ten months, Cold Climate is sire_

He hurriedly stuffed the book away as a knock sounded on his door. Assuming it was one of the staff, Alfred stood from where he'd been crouched over his desk and moved over to open the entry way.  
Arthur was standing on the other side. "Do you…" he trailed off, indecision flickering before snuffing out, "do you have any significant other that you left behind?"

Alfred was surprised by such a personal question, floundering about a moment before shaking his head. "No. In the romantic sense, no. But I did leave behind family." Arthur nodded his head, his gaze now far-off and distant.

"Brilliant, well I'll leave you to your dinner than. Have a nice night, Alfred," Arthur managed a small smile before disappearing down the stairs, leaving a puzzled American in his wake.

Now thoroughly perplexed, and insatiably hungry, Alfred was pacing when the meal finally arrived. It was set down on top of his desk, he waved away any inquiries as to whether or not he would like something else, and he dug in. It was a wonderful meal, steak swimming in some thick form of a sauce with mashed potatoes and steamed carrots on the side. It was gone in minutes, and the glass of milk that had accompanied it downed efficiently.

Wiping his mouth on a napkin, Alfred stood back and moved over to his window, peering out at the barn further ahead of him. He had to say that he was excited for the next day. Hopefully Arthur had a track nearby, or knew of one that he was willing to let Alfred go to with some of his horses so that the trainer could see how they ran.

Sliding into some flannel pajamas, Alfred wormed his way between the sheets of his bed, resting his head back on the fluffy pillow and sighing, staring up at the soaring canopy arcing over him.

He couldn't get what he had done out of his mind. He'd left America, on a whim, to follow some Englishman that he'd never even met before over to England to train his horses. There was no rhyme or reason to this, except perhaps, a desire for a change of pace. His mother would be furious, his brother quiet and unopinianated on the surface but seething beneath. His two sisters, would also be upset with him, one more so open about it than the other. Alfred was a twin of the elder sister, Amelia. She was as loud and talkative, chatty and opinionated as he was; constantly wearing a smile. His brother, Matthew, was twins with the younger girl, Marguerite, though everyone just called her Meg. They were both also similar in the manners, and had thrived when the family lived in Canada the years that they were born.

Alfred was the biggest horseman of his family. His father had gotten him his first equine on his eleventh birthday, and then Alfred left to go off and make a name for himself on his sixteenth. Matthew was fonder of bears than he was horses, Meg preferred moose, and Amelia was a huge Labrador fan. Each member of the family had their quirks, but that was what made them mesh so well.

After Alfred had left his parents and siblings behind, he'd struggled. He was working for very low pay as a trainer for men who only ever ran their horses in claiming and bush races. His big break came a few years later in a horse called _Gallant Man_ who'd set blazing track records. Alfred was eventually let go, but he had a lot less difficulty finding owners who were willing to take him on as their trainer after that. Eventually the Santa Anita racing stewards snapped him up as a replacement trainer for any owner who happened to have his bail on him the day or so before a race; and it had happened before. That was the position that Arthur had found him in; bored, unused, and looking for another big horse. Arthur felt that he had what Alfred was looking for.

While Alfred had spent his day jotting down notes about Arthur's horses and getting to know the equines themselves, Arthur was working. He was a wonderful tradesman, and had more than enough relics to sell to interested buyers. Though he would never admit it, he was grateful that Alfred had barged in when he did, otherwise he probably would have broken yet another vase, or lamp, or glass trophy. Arthur was having to sit through an agonizing decision of who to give a particularly valuable relic to; a close friend who'd offered a substantial amount of money for it, or a corporate owner who offered money and backing to any future business endeavors that Arthur might one day pursue. Arthur had to make a tough decision.

When he knocked on Alfred's door later that night, Arthur didn't really know what had come over him. Maybe he was upset because he'd eventually decided to take the businessman's offer over his friend, and then his friendship was thrown in the dumps at the somber news Arthur had to give; and that was a novelty as he and the skinny Asian man with the long black ponytail had been friends since high school.

He also could have visited Alfred's door because he was genuinely interested in the American, and wanted to know if the man was available for him to pursue. It took an intense amount of effort to not smile as his hopes were confirmed. Alfred wasn't taken, he was free. Whether or not he was interested in his own gender was still yet to be tested, but Arthur had confidence.

So when Arthur went to sleep in his own bed, for the first time in a long while he didn't agonize over a particularly harsh memory from when he was younger. He wasn't plagued with the images of flashing hooves and rolling white eyes. He didn't have gnashing teeth tearing at his arms and legs, or the smell of smoke and fire burning his nose and throat. He was thinking and dreaming about the new trainer he had hired. He was actually rather excited for the future.

While Arthur and Alfred slept happily in soft beds with their heads tucked on squashy pillows, the man that was to be their future jockey was resting comfortably in the hay at a horse's feet, his head rested on a saddle.

His name was Kiku, and he had immigrated from Japan some years previous with a desire to get into horseracing. Unfortuantely for the quiet man, in the world of horses you have to be able to sell yourself; you have to be loud, out there, and demanding for people's attention. No one's going to think you can control the horse otherwise.

So Kiku had sunk through the ranks of importance, other brasher jockeys taking the mounts that he could have sailed through to first place given the chance. He was running in just a few claiming races now, his body battered from an innumerable amount of falls and his mind stuck on the idea of just going back home.

His latest mount, Buckwheat Autumn, had won without much difficulty in the claimer, thank God for Kiku, so now the Japanese man was a little surer about his position as jockey for this particular horse owner and trainer.

But Kiku wasn't content with his position in life right now. He wanted to be better than this, he wanted to win races in big stakes races, on horses with names that drew hundreds of thousands to see them run. He wanted to put what he knew was an innate skill to actual use.

He wanted fame, but he didn't want to deal with the press or the loud-mouthed paparazzi to get there. He wasn't able to sell himself, something that his later trainer, Alfred, would more than compensate for. And so he fell asleep on the thick straw bed of the horse's stall, his ear squashed beneath the weight of his head against the hard leather of the saddle. The moonlight splashed over his dark hair, running like milk over each strand, and touching his face with gentle fervor.

Kiku's life would change for the better on the morrow he could count on it.

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So, share your thoughts! I love helpful criticism and glowing praise. The latter more so than the former, but criticism helps bring me down a peg or two. I can get awfully egotistical if I'm too into myself... xD

Au revoir, mes amis!


	3. Victory

As promised, here's the next chapter, rather late on a Wednesday, but never mind that. I hope all of you enjoy it, for those of you who read this. xD

_Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia, or any real horses/people/places mentioned in this work._

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**Victory**

_"To seek greatness is the only righteous vengeance."  
_

**―Criss Jami**

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Kiku snapped awake to the scuffing of boots on the concrete floor of the stable. It appeared that some of the other jockeys for other trainers in the barn were going to go out for their general runs. Kiku unwillingly forced himself up and to his feet. He was lucky in that his body weight was pretty solid in where it rested and it was quite low for a man, roughly 110. He didn't need to worry much about the purging and the burning and the getting down to weight. His stablemate, in this case a lovely bay Thoroughbred with inquisitive, dark brown eyes gazed solemnly at him before returning to staring out the stall window.

Kiku passed an absent hand over the bay's soil-colored coat as he walked by the horse to slide out of the stall. He was hungry for breakfast and had his fingers crossed that the stable kitchen would be willing to spare him a couple of extra mouthfuls of something. He missed the food of his childhood—tasteful, home cooked Japanese cuisine—but he understood that sacrifices must be made on a racetrack.

Arriving at the kitchen, he managed a gentle smile at a younger bug boy who was running about behind the cook, a stained apron around his waist. Kiku could tell that the guy was trying to help, but was only getting in the way. The cook, a cranky Italian man, sent Kiku a glare before shoving the requested food into his hands and booting him back out the door.

The smile now thoroughly melted from his face, the Japanese man turned to glare at the cook's back before taking his meager meal over to the stall that he'd spent the night in, leaning back against the wooden door to consume the blandly colored, but surprisingly tasteful, porridge and mull over the race that he was to run in today. He wasn't sure which horse his trainer would boost him up on, he never was, and he desperately wanted to know.

Kiku had a habit, a ritual, that involved sitting down and going through the race. He would run it in his mind, imagining pitfalls and shortcomings, and gaps that open along the fence line, guessing about how long they would be open, closers and starters, mucky areas, the different stats of the different horses running and their strengths and weaknesses. And he needed to know which horse _he_ was going to ride because he needed to know what _that _horse's strengths and weaknesses are. He needed to know which name would be under him so he could be aware of what to do and so he could fully imagine the race that he would be running before it was run.

But his trainer was stingy about that kind of thing and just waved the inquisitive jockey away when the man finally came to ask. "It's none of your concern, Kiku, go make sure your colors are on, alright?" said the man, an American immigrant who still possessed a bit of the flat accent, even if he didn't use any of the American phrases anymore.

Kiku bit back a harsh reply, choosing to bow his head respectfully before moving off to get himself ready. He didn't have any what one would call 'civilian clothes' but he understood that it wasn't correct to wear a jockey's jersey when not actually riding, for fear of doing something unalterably damaging to it. Sliding this on, he tucked it into the Jodhpur he was already wearing and checked that his helmet was on safe and sound, though it lacked the majority of the things that would be stuffed inside it to make it a safe helmet, and nudged his hand gently along the rump of the horse with whom he'd shared the stall as he bent to pick up his saddle. The animal didn't react, reassured that Kiku was back there and meant no harm, it twitched an ear in acknowledgement as the Japanese man left the stall, saddle hammocked between his arms.

He arrived at the mounting circle right on time, his whip balanced lightly in the grip of his right hand. He was quickly booted up onto the horse's back, in this case a flighty creature with the fitting name of _Whirlwind Bird_.

The horses were then led to the starting gates, carefully being arranged into their stalls, though some had to be circled back out before a second attempt was made to get the horse in the stall. Kiku was one of these souls, having to steer _Whirlwind Bird_ back out, after the horse had propped at the sight of the gate, and gently guide her in again. The second time, she relented and only jumped slightly at the clang of the gates shutting behind her. The starter in the stall with them held carefully to the bridle, his eyes trained on the turf that was undulating before them. "Good luck," he whispered, right before the bell rang, and he let go of _Whirlwind Bird_'s bridle to let her rip.

And the horse could fly, as Kiku discovered quickly. She shot to a quick lead, hopping along the track, but at a speed that could not possibly be maintained the rest of the race. So Kiku forced her to ease back, allowing another horse to pass them before logging himself in behind that horse, trailing it at a pace that was a good deal more manageable.

By the time they pulled into the homestretch, the other horses had fallen back. The heaving horses beneath the jockeys were throwing their all into their last few meters, foam slipping from the corners of their mouths to dot and splatter on their sweat-matted pelts. The jockeys were crouched low over their mounts, fingers knotted into mane and around the leather straps of bridles, arms moving like the tide with the push and pull of their horse's heads.

Kiku could feel the tension in Whirlwind, he knew that she was aching to be let go, nagging and tugging at her bridle. And finally, he allowed her the freedom to do just that, tucking his face into her mane and letting her rocket ahead, her hooves taking chunks out of the track as she flew up so that she was neck and neck with the leading horse. Their noses continued to trade places, one in front of the other and then the other in front of the one.

Kiku gave Whirlwind a gentle nudge with a light tap of his whip against her right flank, and with that incentive, she flew past the other horse to win by two lengths.

Kiku's head finally reappeared from where it had been tucked into his horse's neck. A wide smile was on his face due to the euphoria of winning a race. The owner of the magnificent creature rushed on the field and over to the winner's circle, allowing one of the lead horses to help Kiku guide the still adrenaline-pumped filly beneath him.

The equine's hooves clipped along the stone of the circle, her reins passing into the hands of the person who had purchased her. It was a claiming race, after all, and she had performed unusually well that day. Her owner was happy to see her go, as she'd given him nothing but grief beforehand.

Kiku smiled wanly at the man who now owned the filly, quickly sliding off of her back and bowing his head. This stranger was tall compared to Kiku, a good 5'9 at least. He had some startling blue eyes that were now staring unnervingly intently at the jockey standing before him.

"You rode that race really well, dude," he spoke up finally, surprising the Japanese man with the strength of the American accent that he held.  
"Er, thank you, sir," said Kiku, bowing his head and clasping his hands in front of him. It was a gesture of respect.

"Do ya wanna come ride over at my barn? I could use some of your skill," said this man randomly, alarming Kiku enough to make him step back.

"I already have a contract, sir, I can't accept your offer," he apologized desperately, hands moving up in front of him, palms turned towards the trainer.

Alfred laughed and waved a hand. "Don't worry, I'll take care of it. So what do ya say?" There was a certain twinkle in his eye, a light of dangerous energy, that was slowly drawing Kiku in. He considered it, mulled it over, and then finally decided.

"Yes, I would love to."

And with that the stranger, this completely unknown anomaly of a man, passed the reins to Kiku's hands and dove into the crowd in search of Kiku's contractor. He returned a few minutes later with an impossibly wider grin.

"Sweet, alright, follow me. My trailer's this way," he waved his hand in a beckoning gesture over his head before beginning to slip through the crowds in a surprisingly quick way, considering the broadness of him.

Kiku did his best to keep up, with the horse still with him. They needed to hotwalk her before they put her on the trailer, and he dreaded having to tell Alfred that. He didn't like that sort of confrontation, and they guy seemed really nice.

Once they arrived at the trailer, which was in a blessedly empty spot, Alfred made a gesture to Kiku. "Go on and walk her out, I'll make sure this baby's ready," he said, fondly patting the side of the gleaming white vessel before disappearing into its depths. Shuffling came around from inside, and Kiku took that as his sign to begin guiding _Whirlwind Bird_ around in a circle, rubbing his hand along the bridge of her snout and the solid stoutness of her powerful neck. She was a beautiful filly, white as snow with the exception of the flecks of mud that were dotting her cavernous chest, hocks, and lower belly.

It took a good thirty minutes to properly cool a horse down from flat-out galloping along a track, and those thirty minutes were spent in relative quietude. Alfred had lain the necessary things to cover Whirlwind in and was now sitting against his trailer's wheels with a pocket knife and a stick, whistling a jaunty tune. He was surprisingly silent, considering what an impact he'd made on the Japanese man before, this was unexpected, but appreciated.

Once Whirlwind had cooled down, Kiku hurried over to apply all the necessary bandages, and wash off the muck on her legs and belly. More water was applied to her back and neck and she was given a long drink of water while he wrapped gauze about her forelegs to protect her from rubbing them against the bars of the trailer as they made their way to Alfred's barn.

In total, it was about an hour after their meeting when everything was finally ready to go. Alfred hopped into the driver's seat and gestured for Kiku to take the passenger, revving the motor, and pulled away from the little racetrack.

They were headed London's direction, Kiku noticed as he sat primly in the front passenger seat, his hands folded artfully into his lap. His back was stiff and straight as a pole, heels working nervous treads into the floor mat of the car.

Then he realized that he'd forgotten to return his jersey.

"Turn the car around!" he yelped, causing Alfred to slam his foot on the brakes, and an indignant whinny to echo from the trailer behind them. Alfred gave Kiku a confused look. "What on Earth are you talking about?"

"My colors," murmured Kiku now, a tad more timid than before, "I still have them."

Alfred smiled and shook his head. "Don't worry about it. The fee I paid for you will more than cover for stolen jockey shirts." He waved Kiku's concern away and slowly resumed his normal speed.

Kiku was desperate to know how much exactly had been paid for his services, but was worried that would come across as too conceited, or intrusive a question.

His jockey's cap was still on his head, and he eventually pulled it off due to the discomfort it was affording him. His fingers itched happily at his scalp, running through the strands of hair with a relieved fervor. It felt nice to have air breathing on the skin there again. The helmet was set gently on his lap and he relaxed into the fabric covering of the seat back.

Alfred smiled at the Japanese man's relieved sigh, turning to look at his newest jockey before pulling his eyes back to the road.

It was only about one or two in the afternoon by the time they made it to the house, and something occurred to Kiku.

"How long have you been in America? You drive amazingly well on the left side of the road."

Alfred laughed. "That's 'cause I didn't drive a lot over in the states. It's kinda like I'm re-learning how to drive over here. It's not that difficult, just gotta change some things around." He shrugged awkwardly before hopping out of the car and moving around to where Whirlwind was. They'd pulled over at one point along the road to check on her before resuming their journey, and she was still okay. Clucking his tongue, Alfred carefully slid by the nervous filly, running his hand along her rump, and then her muscular sides, and up her neck before cupping around her muzzle, sliding beneath a halter strap.

His other hand unlooped the rope from where it had been knotted on the ring on the side of the trailer, before he began to gently guide her backwards. Kiku was standing at the end of the trailer, watching her hind legs to make sure that she didn't accidentally step off the side of the ramp.

Once they'd successfully gotten her on the ground, Alfred smiled at a bubbly little boy who had appeared out of nowhere by Kiku's elbow.

"Hi!" the lad chirped, waving his hand ecstatically. Kiku smiled gently and gave a small wave of his own. "I'm Peter, are you our new jockey? That's a pretty horse right there, what's her name?"

The boy was full to bursting with questions, and Kiku waited until he was done asking them before beginning to respond to each. "Yes, my name is Kiku, and that horse is Whirlwind Bird," he said, gesturing fondly at the glimmering, snowy exterior of the fabulous weapon of speed that was prancing next to him.

Alfred handed off her bridal to Peter, and the boy gently led her to the stables, guiding her through and presumably to her stall.

Alfred led Kiku into the pretty house that was sitting a good few yards from the barn.

Walking through the door, they were greeted by a butler, whom Alfred grudgingly gave his coat. Kiku awkwardly handed his jockey's jersey over, before beginning to remove his shoes as he was used to doing when entering houses in Japan. Both of the Western men gave him an odd look, but didn't say anything.

Once done with removing his shoes, Kiku allowed himself to be led through the house by Alfred until they reached a rather imposing brown door. Alfred didn't even bother knocking, just barged rudely in.

"Arthur!" he yelled cheerfully, not noticing the filthy look that was thrown his way by Arthur, who was very clearly on the phone. Upon this realization, Alfred quieted, looking suitably sheepish for his loud outburst. Arthur's shocking green eyes slid from the obnoxious American and landed on Kiku, those eyebrows furrowing a moment before he turned back to the window, resuming his phone call. The cord was stretching from the wall to dangle like a jump rope between the phone and the keypad. It took only five more minutes before Arthur hung up and turned expectantly to Alfred.

"Yes, Alfred?"

"I got a new horse and jockey today," chirped the American proudly, gesturing to Kiku next to him. "This is Kiku."

Arthur offered his right hand, which Kiku tentatively took, and who's are was almost shaken out of his socket at the strength and firmness in Arthur's handshake. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Kiku," said the Briton. "What's the new horse's name, Alfred?" his eyes never parted from Kiku, making the man shift uncomfortably and move back from where Arthur had shaken his hand.

"Whirlwind Bird. She's gorgeous, Arthur, all white ice and blizzards. Insanely fast, too, like sleet. She'll be a great addition to your stable, I'm sure of it. And besides, Peter adores her." The small smile that crossed Arthur's face at the mention of the little boy was hard to ignore. "That's lovely." He murmured, ducking his head and regaining his expressionless mask.

"Yep. So can Kiku have a room in the house? Or do you prefer that he rest out in the barn with the other jockeys?"

"Oh, really, it's not a problem," said Kiku desperately, waving his hands plaintively in the air. "I don't mind staying in the stable."

Arthur held a hand up to interrupt any response Alfred would attempt to give back. "Kiku, you are more than welcome to a room in the house. It seems that Alfred has a lot of confidence in your skills, and I'm willing to rely on the knowledge of my trainer. You can choose your room, though I'd prefer it be closer to Alfred's for better communication if necessary." He wavered a moment, eyes flitting to Alfred before quickly glancing away when the American looked in his direction.

"Right then," he cleared his throat, "dinner will be at 8:00, please don't be late." And with that being said, he waved them out of the room, his eyes, Kiku noticed, lingering on Alfred's rather muscular back. There was a hidden longing there, something that the Japanese man was sure the trainer would never notice, unless it was quite literally shoved in his face in the form of a kiss.

But that was not his problem, and so he trailed Alfred out of the office and up the stairs. The American gestured to an empty room at the right of his. "Here you are, I hope you like it!" he chirped, as if he were the owner and not Arthur.

Kiku walked into the room, pleasantly surprised with the coffee-colored walls, white down comforter on the king sized bed, and the fluffy rug beneath it. A desk was in the corner, and a window resting just to the right of the bed over a nightstand. Darker tan curtains were pulled back, allowing the sun to leak in and crawl across the hardwood floors of the bedroom. A fan was on the ceiling, pedaling gently after Kiku turned it on, stirring the stagnant air.

Alfred knocked on the door. "All good?" he asked, eyes clipping about the room. "We need to get you some accessories, dude, your room is so boring." He complained before grabbing Kiku's hand and fleeing down the halls with him. "Anyways, come on! There are horses to meet," and with that they were out of the house and sprinting the way to the stable, Kiku's boots hastily being pulled on before he followed the excited trainer.

Skidding into the barn, Kiku was immediately hit with the comforting scent of hay and horse. It was a musky, warm odor that always put him more at ease in his surroundings. Nickers rang out from stall door to stall door, snorts and the 'swish' sound of a tail against hocks and hoofs kicking lightly at stall doors. All of that was home.

Alfred introduced him to the horses, starting from the front and leading back. Not all were thoroughbreds, most, but not all. There was a lovely Palomino in one stall and a fierce Friesian in another. There was even a homely little pinto that looked like it could more than hold its own against the big-name thoroughbreds that would share its paddock.

By the time they reached the stalls for the pregnant female horses in the back of the stable, it was rather late in the afternoon. Alfred had a lot to say about each horse, and if Kiku had politely stopped him, they would probably only have just moved on to the second horse of the stable by now.

Alfred gestured to the midnight black creature on the right. "This here is Midnight's Appeal, she's carrying her fourth, and last foal. The foal's sire is Cold Climate, so we'll see about this one's speed, yeah?"

He moved on from Midnight's Appeal, giving her nose a gentle rub, flitting across to the stall on the other side and grinning at the flame of a horse that was chewing her food on the other side of the door. "And this gorgeous creature is Let's Set the World on Fire. We call her Flicker for short. This'll be her first foal, sired by Dr. Fager. She's gorgeous, ain't she? I can feel the energy just being near her," Kiku could tell that Alfred absolutely adored this equine, could feel it in the way that the American rested his cheek on the heel of his hand and then subsequently rested his elbows on the stall door. A huff of breath was blown on his face by the inquisitive muzzle of Flicker.

"She is very pretty," spoke up Kiku, feeling guilty for shattering the silence that Alfred seemed to have been content to settle back in. The trainer just turned soft eyes on him, a smile tugging at his lips. "Isn't she? She's fire, and rage, and pure speed burned into one form. She's practically perfect, and I _know_ that this foal is going to do great things. I just know it. And I want you to ride it."

Kiku was surprised, but he eagerly nodded his assent. "Of course." Once done with that, the two returned to the house, separating to their own rooms to spend time alone before the 8:00 dinner. Kiku passed his time by drawing and sleeping. He was sore, exhausted, and eager to get some rest in him due to his past few sleepless nights at the hooves of horses.

Alfred, however, was forced from his room by the butler at Arthur's request. Grumbling, and looking longing at the little notebook he kept that contained all of his notes on his different horses, Al allowed himself to be led to the office, being sure to complain loudly as he walked in the room.

He knew that he shouldn't be acting so rude to his boss, but he was honestly too comfortable with Arthur, after having lived with him for a few weeks, to not be. It was rather strange, though, how easily he was able to act himself around Arthur and not feel like a complete and utter fool. Sure, Arthur could _make_ him feel that way, but he rarely took the opportunity, and instead Alfred found an agreeable and sometimes disagreeable friend in his employer.

Alfred threw himself childishly into the leather chair in front of Arthur's desk. "Whatcha want?"

"How are my horses doing? Is Midnight's Appeal close to foal yet?"

"Only about a couple weeks off. I'm not so sure about how wonderful of a foal hers will be, though. I mean, it's not like it has a lot of thoroughbred blood in its veins."

Arthur looked affronted. "Just because an animal doesn't have a certain pedigree doesn't mean it won't make a great equine. I'm sure her foal will be marvelous, and I will hear no more of your distaste for her."

Alfred shrunk back in the chair a bit, sulking but otherwise taking the reprimanding. "Yes sir. Flicker's drawing nearer as well, and I'm really feeling that her foal will do some remarkable things."

"Do you think so?" asked Arthur, seeming to be memorizing the way Alfred's face lit up and changed at the mention of the foals, and the horses. He was a different character, one with his entire life centered around the art of training, and connecting with the horses.

"You are a truly remarkable man, you know that?" Arthur found himself saying, and then upon realizing it was too late to take it back, just went with it.

Al flushed a bit. "Er, thanks I guess." He shuffled back in his seat, fingers moving to fist in the worn down denim of his jeans.

They resumed conversing, neither noticing how the other was drawing near until Arthur's elbows were on the table, with his torso leaning on his forearms, and Alfred was resting his own head on the palm of his left hand, talking animatedly about his absolute favorite racehorse in the entire world; Seabiscuit.

Arthur watched the man wave his hand about as he spoke, watched the way his lips formed each word, his cheeks moving open and closed, his eyes blinking, flicking from Arthur's own and then to the windows and the door and the floor, and back for the second round.

Those glasses placed an annoying sheen over Al's eyes, blocking Arthur from completely seeing how deep that color could stretch. He was itching to take them off, but knew that it would be considered an impertinence until he and Alfred got on even better terms.

Before either knew it, the butler was knocking at the door urging them to head to the 8:00 dinner. Arthur gestured for Alfred to exit first before following his trainer out of the room, passing him by in the hallway with a brush of fingers along the inside of Alfred's caved palm.

The American jumped and was left staring after a supremely attractive, and insufferable Englishman's back.

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End of Chapter Three.

So what did you all think?

Please review, comment, favorite, follow, do the stuffs. I love those who will give me feedback, whether it be glowing or a criticism, I appreciate them both.


	4. More Than a Little Persistent

Bonjour! Chapitre quatre. I hope that all of you reading and following this enjoy it, and if not, please let me know.

**Guest-** Thank you for the support! I'm glad that you enjoy it thus far. xD

**Guest-** I'm pleased that this concept intrigues you, I don't know why I came up with it or what inspired it, but I'm rather fond of it myself.

_Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia. Uh, duh._

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**More Than a Little Persistent**

_"Unless commitment is made, there are only promises and hopes; but no plans."  
_

**―Peter F. Drucker**

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Arthur settled himself comfortably at the head of the table. Kiku and Alfred sat to his right and left, respectably. Napkins were unfolded and settled gently across laps, and then heads were bowed in silent prayer. Not all of them believed in the same gods.

Once each had finished with his thanks, the meal was served. Metal, curved lids were lifted from the platters they'd previously covered, uncovering an exquisite array of food beneath.

Arthur, Alfred later noted, was not one to scrimp on impressing guests.

There was yellow, cheesy rice sitting next to a superb pork loin, next to a platter of deliciously green asparagus, next to a tray of fruit arrayed nicely with pineapple slices starting at the bottom, and working through layers of apples, pears, and peaches before reaching the top circle of an ornately carved orange.

Alfred's mouth was watering, and he could tell by the stretched wideness of Kiku's eyes that the Japanese man was equally enthralled with the spread before them.

Once Arthur had taken food upon his own plate, Alfred and Kiku, though the latter with a good bit more grace, lurched forward to fill their own plates with the feast.

By the time both had their plates groaning under the hefty weight of the food before them, Arthur had already obliged them with taking a bite of his food, which allowed them to immediately dig into their own.

And it was as wondrous as it looked, though Alfred couldn't tell exactly what the rice tasted like compared to the asparagus as he inhaled all the sustenance on his plate in one fell swoop.

Kiku picked gently at his food, aware that as a jockey he oughtn't get too cocky about his remarkably low weight. That could rise easily, and unpredictably, if anything did happen to cause a weight gain and he didn't want this opulent meal to be the spark that started the fire.

So he had a nibble of rice here, a tiny slice of pork loin there, a dab of fruit. Nothing more, though, than a taste would need.

Both Alfred and Kiku sipped delicately at the cut-crystal wine glasses that had been set before them, filled with the murky clearness of white wine.

Arthur, however, was proving himself to be a rather robust drinker, downing three wine glasses within an hour and was halfway though with his fourth.

It faintly concerned Alfred, to see such a lack of concern for the Englishman's liver, but he didn't speak up. There were some boundaries that weren't to be crossed, and he knew that a drinking problem was one of them.

Alfred was the first one to start conversation, as Arthur didn't seem like he would be interested in the task, and Kiku was just naturally quieter than himself.

"So, Midnight's Appeal is due to foal soon."

Arthur grinned, perhaps a little looser thanks to the wine he'd consumed. "Yes, and that foal will be _far better_ than Flicker's foal any day," he gave Alfred a knowing look at the man's surprised expression. "Yes, I know about you and Peter's nickname for my horse. I will put up with it, only so long as 'Let's Set the World on Fire' remains on the register for her racing name."

Alfred nodded his head slowly.

Arthur seemed to have a bit more of an edge to him when inebriated. Alfred didn't feel much like teasing him, or making fun of him, or doing any of the things that he would have regularly done earlier that week, or even that day.

Kiku coughed politely, flushing as Arthur's and Alfred's green and blue eyes landed on him with curiosity.

"Will I be riding any of these animals, sir?" asked the jockey, something seeming to hold his volume level down, perhaps a fear of being let go.

"Well of course you will, Kiks!" said Alfred, already having come up with a nickname for the poor Japanese man. "I plan on getting you up on one of the horses tomorrow, actually."

Kiku managed a wan smile, though his expression was still a little sour at the rather improper nickname Alfred had given him. They barely knew each other, after all.

Arthur cleared his throat, suddenly wanting to have Al's cerulean eyes on him, goddamnit.

Alfred swung his gaze to his boss, a weary darkness to it. This both pleased and bothered Arthur, though the former more so than the latter.

Though, now that he had Alfred's attention, Arthur realized that he had nothing really of importance to say.

"Er… I believe that you will greatly enjoy this dessert, Alfred." He said lamely, not quite inebriated enough to start slurring his words. He could hold his own when it came to drinking, that was for sure.

Al gave him a strange look, but was too wary of a drunk Arthur to really feel a need to give a nasty reply, as he possibly would have in normal circumstances.

The dessert was wheeled out just as they fell into another awkward silence, and it was a heavenly creation. Alfred doubted that he would ever see another chocolate cake so beautifully decorated ever again. It was almost a shame that he was going ot have to destroy it to eat it.

And it was a beautiful cake, with chocolate brown icing glossed over beneath the chandelier lights that hung above the table. It had pretty, pale green icing flowers iced out on top of it, the edges of each little petal white with icing that had crusted a bit. Curlicues of lighter brown decorated the space between the flowers in beautiful, arching loops, and moved on to do some elaborate pattern-work along the sides of the dessert.

Alfred and Kiku's mouths were watering, and when the man who had served the cake cut out the pieces, all three of the men at the table fell on their slices with fervent vigor. Kiku threw all concerns about his weight to the side, too tempted by the cake to concern himself with them. Alfred wolfed it down in seconds but was unable to beg another slice from the serving man, who had stepped back and was staring very determinedly at the opposite wall.

Arthur ate his cake delicately, being sure to take a sip of wine between every two bites. By the time he'd actually finished it, he was well through his fifth, and was losing his composure.

"Y'know Alfred," he slurred, pushing the plate aside and sloppily leaning his elbows on the table, eyes half-lidded, "I deserve more respect from you," Alfred was mildly alarmed that Arthur was demanding this at such an iffy time, and so he shifted slightly backwards in his seat, choosing to respond politely for a moment. "I'll be sure to get on that, my apologies," he was unnaturally proper, but there was never a better time for that, he figured.

Kiku could easily see where this was going and rapidly excused himself, fleeing down the path that he'd memorized to his room.

Arthur's eyes narrowed sharply then, his fist slamming down on the wood of the table. "Dammit, Alfred!" he snapped, clear once more for a moment, "why'd ye got to be so rude al the time!" he began to break down then, tears springing to his eyes.

Alfred blinked, beginning to regret not choosing to hang to Kiku's heels. "I'm sorry?"

"I took you in!" said Arthur then, patting his chest with an open palm to further sharpen each syllable. "I didn't have to hire you, no! But I wanted to! And all you do to repay me is be ungrateful, rude, and stupid!" tears were there now, and he was beginning to make little sense as he trailed off into mumbles that were completely indecipherable for how low they were.

"My family didn't like me very much, did you know that?" said Arthur suddenly, his voice once more rising in volume.

Alfred slowly shook his head, standing up to begin slowly circling round the table towards the inebriated Englishman.

"Hey Artie, let's get you in bed, yeah?" he asked, being surprisingly gentle. Arthur gazed at him a moment before sighing and hanging his head in dulled agreement.

He stood then, stumbling a moment and feeling Alfred's warm hands touch his shoulders for a point of steadiness. He ached to relax back in those no-dobut very strong arms, as stupid as it sounded.

But even in this state, he wasn't htat stupid.

So he began to make his way upstairs, Alfred trailing him at a close proximity, perhaps out of fear that he would suddenly take a tumble, which was a rather likely thing as he wasn't sure when he'd grown two more feet, but there they were.

Alfred followed him into his room nad helped him to pull his shoes and socks off, even going so far as to unbutton Arthur's shirt for him.

That was a rather cumbersome period, with Alfred's fingers slipping the buttons open with a nervousness to them that had his thumbs sliding off of the buttons more often than they were on them.

Once the shirt was gone, as Arthur was barely able to shrug it away from himself, they were on to the pants.

Alfred stood there awkwardly a moment, running his hand nervously along the back of his neck. "Er, can you get them yourself?" he asked, not expecting the snappish reply that he got from Arthur as the Englishman struggled to take off his _trousers_ not pants.

He couldn't quite coördinate his fingers enough to get the clasp on them, and so Alfred was forced to go through that awkward ordeal, not noticing the proximity of one another's faces until he was peering up after a job well done to find Arthur's jade eyes hitting his blue ones.

"Er…" he trailed off, quickly backing away and switching his gaze to another corner of the room. "Right then, well, I'm off to bed. Nighty night, Artie," and with that, he fled from the bedroom, probably faster than Kiku had left the dining room.

Arthur was left sitting on his bed. After a moment of dulled pain, he slid the trousers the rest of the way off and curled under the covers, his alcohol-addled mind slipping quickly off at the feeling of the oh-so-soft sheets gliding against his skin

Alfred, however, took a while to change into his pajamas, which happened to have the Batman logo on both the shirt and pants, and was left considering what Arthur meant by 'no one in my family likes me.' He'd never even really thought that Arthur had family, considering how removed and cranky the guy could be, but it all did make sense, somehow. He wondered if he would ever get to meet this relatives, or if they avoided their English cousin, son, or brother.

He didn't ponder it long before he was asleep.

Months passed, and both Midnight's Appeal and Flicker eventually foaled.

Midnight's foal was a gray little creature, its coat a lovely silver, with eyes that were slowly turning an arresting amber. His mane was as black as his mother's, and he was rather tall, barely able to duck his head beneath his mother to nurse.

Flicker's little daughter was a creature of golds and caramels. Her coat splashed different hues in certain lights, her hocks painted with white socks, a snippet of white on its long nose. Her eyes were a soothing brown, though lit with an inner fire that told of something perhaps a little more hidden in her.

Arthur didn't want to see them, didn't even want to get close to them. He spent many hours in his office with Alfred, hashing out name decisions, until eventually they came to a compromise.

Midnight's colt would be titled the rather illustrious _Silver Lightning Doth Flash_, which Alfred personally found a little pretentious, but that was the best thing they could come up with for the little foal.

Flicker's filly was labeled with a rather fitting _Inferno's Incandescence_, a name that Alfred was rather fond of.

After they'd decided the names, Alfred had tried for the fifth time to get Arthur to go down to the stables and see his latest additions.

But the man was adamant in avoiding the area as much as possible, and slowly Al was losing his temper.

Finally, he snapped. "Dude, what the hell! You want to own racehorses but you don't wanna see them!?" his hands were thrown in the air as if he were beseeching the heavens for an explanation, and he'd abandoned his chair in favor of standing up.

Unfortunately for Alfred, Arthur had a temper of his own, and the Briton was rapidly standing as well, his chair rolling back over the hardwood floors.

"Don't start, Alfred, I am your boss for heaven's sake and I _will_ have your respect!"

Alfred huffed. "I respect you, Arthur, I just want to know _why_!"

Arthur pointed to the door, "Get out!" he snapped, "get out, get out, get out!"

Alfred, however, wouldn't budge in his stance either. "No, not until I found out what is wrong with you."

He sat back down in the chair, squirming his butt into it as if to make more of a point of his mission to stay.

Arthur didn't appreciate this attitude, as he rounded his desk and braced his hand on the arms of Alfred's chair. "Alfred, you will leave my office this instant or I shall be forced to drag this chair out of here,"

Alfred just sniffed and turned up his chin, tilting his head left.

And that was when Kiku walked in. The man had looked to speak to Arthur about the horses himself, and was now stuck in a rather awkward situation.

"Oh, was I interrupting something?" he asked, backing up with the tips of his ears flushing red. Arthur was gazing at him with a mix of relief and annoyance. "Why do you ask, Kiku? Does it look as if we are doing something of an illicit nature?" he asked, holding the man's gaze in his request for an answer.

Kiku cleared his throat, noticing the way Alfred's shoulders straightened where he sat in the chair. "Well, yes, but that's not a bad thing!" He said suddenly, flustered as he Alfred whipped around, a betrayed look to his eyes.

Arthur smirked, "That will be all, Kiku, thank you. I shall be sure to catch you at a time that will be convenient for both of us to discuss the newest horses. For now, I have some business that I need to take care of with Alfred. Good job on your last race, by the way, I hear that you rode expertly."

Kiku tilted his head in thanks before rushing from the room, his boots clipping down the hall before the front door slammed, presumably, behind him.

Arthur turned his acidic eyes to Alfred, noticing with a hint of pleasure that the American man was a good deal less comfortable than he had been earlier. "So, what do you think, Alfred? Could we get up to any illicit activities in this place?" his voice was dangerously hushed, hinting at things that were perhaps a little more contraband than Alfred would probably enjoy admitting, judging by the faint blush to his ears and cheeks.

Arthur's lips curved into a feral smile. "I've got a deal for you, Alfred," he said, the man finally met his eyes again. "I'll tell you about my past if you kiss me."

Kiku had fled into the barn with all the grace of a shot goose, silent, but rather flustered in appearance.

Peter watched the normally put-together Japanese man fly past in his search for a saddle and a horse to ride. He had Belle, the stable's pinto, saddled in record time, and was quickly off to the races, leaving a bewildered and confused Peter behind him, a feed bucket filled to the brim with the horse's grains resting against his shins and dangling from his hands.

Kiku urged Belle on, feeling the steady rhythm of her gallop beneath him. Her hooves clacked first satisfyingly into the concrete of Arthur's driveway and then clomped comfortingly on the dirt of the open fields around him.

technically, he shouldn't be riding a horse at full gallop on unsafe pathways, there was a high chance it could all into something, or snap its leg.

But Kiku was a little too stricken with what had just happened to not want to try and outrun it.

Because he could remember someone whom he'd loved, putting him in much the same position. He could remember shoulder-length brown hair, ragged and not very perfectly cut, a hair that split in two on the top of a head, curling out to either side with perfect symmetry. He could remember a slow voice, and lazy afternoons of cats and cuddling in hay straw. He could remember waking up to the sight of his partner's face.

But that was before he'd been forced to switch trainers, and then stables. He'd lost that man since then, and even as he struggled to shake the photo of Hercules from his mind, he couldn't, because nothing physical can run faster than a memory.

You can't outrun your past, but perhaps your past can outrun you.

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And that is chapter four!

Please tell me what you thought, I value _everyone's_ input.

Thanks for reading, have a lovely Thursday/Wednesday.


	5. Gloria, Send Out Your Messenger

The title is a direct lyric from the Greenday song _Viva la Gloria! _so don't think I came up with it on my own. In the song it talks about spilling pasts and secrets and stuff. So it was fitting, right?

Hello, happy Wednesday/Thursday everybody who follows this story!

Please enjoy this chapter.

_Disclaimer: I do not own the Hetalia franchise or any real things mentioned in this work._

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**Gloria, Send Out Your Messenger**

_"Details matter, it's worth waiting to get it right." _

**―Steve Jobs**

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Arthur probably should have been a little more disconcerted at the pleased smirk that graced Alfred's face upon his request.

"Just one?" purred the American in a surprisingly seductive tone. Arthur wasn't quite ready for this level of willingness, and he just blinked owlishly at his cornered trainer for a moment, unsure of really where to go with this now that he had a willing subject.

"Er…" he stumbled, running his fingers along the smooth wooden arms of Alfred's chair. "Right then." His eyes locked on Al's and he leaned slowly forward, unreasonably nervous now that his trainer was so willing to actually kiss him.

Alfred quickened the pace of the dare, one hand sliding to the back of Arthur's neck as he tugged him into it.

Arthur had to admit, Alfred's lips were surprisingly soft for a man who spent 99 percent of his time around horses and hay. You'd almost think those lips would be scabbed, or rough at least.

But no, they were pilowy and Arthur was rather upset when they drew away from him.

"Sweet dude. So now, tell me," Alfred stared at him, all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.

But Arthur did have one thing on the unpredictable American, and that was his experience in dealing with slippery businessmen. He'd left a loophole in his proposal and he was damn well going to use it.

"Of course. When I decide to," he stepped back and reconfigured himself behind his desk, intent on putting a solid barrier between himself and his too-attractive-to-be-true trainer.

Alfred's eyes widened a moment before narrowing in a horribly betrayed manner. "You cheat!" he accused.

Arthur widened his eyes, raising one impressively bushy eyebrow. "Whyever would I cheat, Alfred? I'm following the rules of our agreement. I said that I would tell you my past, though I never specifically stated when." He shrugged his shoulders and took a seat in the rolley chair, smiling serenely at the American over a bridge of linked fingers.

Alfred was flustered now, inept with words that he couldn't voice properly. "Wh-You-Bu-Tha-Ugh!" He eventually threw his hands into the air, upset and done with the entire debacle. "Whatever dude. I'll be out with the horses you refuse to look at."

With that he stood and left the office, leaving a slightly guilty and slightly unhappy Englishman in his wake.

Arthur wanted to tell Alfred. But how do you explain just how much your family disliked you? How do you explain that you literally fought with all three of your brothers? Tooth and nail and dagger and knife and whatever solid object that could be used for a weapon? How could you explain that you were alone the majority of your life after university? How could you explain any of that to a man who seemed as if he was perfectly happy at the Santa Anita racetrack?

How could you explain that you were a member of the family few wanted to see?

He sighed and buried his head in his arms, his mess of hair sticking out at crazy angles and casting odd shadows upon the wooden desktop. He wanted to go to sleep. He wanted to forget things for a while. Why else would he drink? It could blur these stupid emotions so fantastically well, sometimes even erase them completely if he so chose.

He wheeled to a window near his office and peered out it at the rolling hills that stretched along the back of the barn and house. He could barely see the furthest corner of the barn peaking around the edge of the windowsill, red and illuminated slightly by a setting sun.

He hadn't realized how much time had passed in his musings. Really, he ought to go see those horses that Alfred spoke so often of, but he couldn't force himself to step foot near another equine again. He loved the creatures, adored them and their autonomy and sleekness and _speed._ Horses were magnificent and designed for something better than the Earth they were stuck in. Better than an Earth challenged by nuclear weapons and Russia and America and stupid tensions and communism.

Hell, _he_ deserved a world that was better than that. Alfred did too, and Kiku.

Groaning, he tugged at his hair and dragged himself back from the melodramatic horizons he had just been fleeing towards. Good God, he was such a sob story sometimes.

Wrenching himself from his chair, he exited the stuffy room and made his way through the hallways to the front door. Could he make himself go down and look at the horses that he so adored?

His hand reached out for the front door handle, but the memory zapped through him like electricity and he lurched back as if struck.

The hooves thundered on the concrete on each side of his skull, one landing squarely on his leg and effectively snapping the limb. The horse's eyes were rolling white with terror, their kicking feet lethal for the boy who was trapped on the floor. He couldn't move, he'd been tied there by a particularly melish older, red-haired brother.

The smell of the fire was acrid, burning, dried hay blazing up in fantastic torches of light and heat that were rapidly beginning to melt Arthur's skin. He could feel the heat, feel it searing layers from his face. His blond hair was beginning to spark too, embers catching.

Tears were burning furious tracks down his face, his throat raw with the mix of terrified screeching and smoke. Horse's hooves crashed around him, hitting and missing in various degrees.

Arthur snapped from the dream with the gasp of a drowning man who had just reached air.

His hands were trembling and he was crouched in the corner, bowing his head over his knees and scrubbing his eyes into his kneecaps.

He was so fucked up. So, so, so messed up that it wasn't even remotely healthy.

Quickly, Artur got to his feet and dusted himself off before going to find the chef and discuss food plans for the night.

Alfred had crashed his way out of the house with all the concern of a raging bull.

Full Arthur and his business-man mentality. Though, fucking him could certainly be…

Alfred snapped his head back and forth in an effort to shake such inane thoughts from his mind. There were more important things to consider at the moment than exactly how Arthur was in bed.

He strode into the barn with drama. His boots were solid on the concrete floor, the familiar smell of hay and horse wafting over him and doing a lot in the way of calming him down. A nicker echoed from a stall down the line, emanating from a promising colt of two years. He was bay, with a black nose and stockings, and his name was Penny's Clarity. Alfred enjoyed calling him Clarence.

Peter was struggling with a particularly heavy-looking feed bucket, though Al knew the boy wouldn't want any help with the thing. He could respect that, so he left the child to his respectable chores and moved off to find a horse and a spare jockey. He might as well get started on some training while he had nothing better to do. Midnight and Flicker's foals were still too young to even begin getting them accustomed to tack. He would have to wait a little while longer to see their potential.

Walking past a young Polish boy with straight blond hair leading down to his shoulders, green eyes, and an annoying tone to his words, he grabbed the jockey's upper arm and dragged him along. The boy would just have to resume his conversation with the Lithuanian another day.

Disgruntled Polish trailed after Al but he didn't' give it much mind. This was Feliks' job. The guy would have to get used to it.

"You'll be riding Whirlaway, alright?" said Al, not really caring if Feliks wanted to or not.

The Polish blond nodded his head as Alfred looped the halter around Whirlaway's head, easily leading her back into the stable and tacking her up with the nimble dexterity of a man who had done it _a lot_. Technically, eh was supposed to let one of the stable hands do that job for him, but it was easily managed, so he didn't see the point in bothering them.

He then turned to Feliks and urged him to go ahead and get in the truck, Alfred would be more than happy to load Whirlaway into the trailer.

Once done with getting the skittish filly in and situated, Alfred locked up the back hatch and strode to the driver's seat.

The track was only a couple of miles away, and so it took very little time to get to. Upon reaching it, he hopped out, removed Whirlaway from where she had been loaded in and guided her to the track, just in front of where the starting gates would generally be situated. They had just been introduced to the United Kingdom from America, and evidentally the people at this track hadn't implemented it yet. Alfred hoped they would, that would be the future of horse racing, and he wanted to get his horses training on them as soon as he could.

He boosted Feliks onto Whirlaway's back before stepping back and slapping her hindquarters, pulling out a stopwatch as soon as she started away with the Polish man sinking easily into jockey stance.

Whirlaway was true to her name, and she flew down the track. Her hooves kicked up chunks of dirt against her underbelly, darkening her legs and stomach. She was a cannonball of speed and ripping her way down the track, streamlining along the rail.

Alfred could see that she had a problem with maintaining her speed along the curve, however. She would either slow immensely or drift too far out to make a solid recover in the backstretch.

He chewed at his bottom lip as he struggled to understand how to figure this problem out. He'd come in contact with horses with that issue before, but the solutions would vary depending on the horse's personality. He just didn't know Whirlaway well enough to be able to fix it immediately.

Alfred had Feliks run her a couple more times until the horse was tuckered out and lathered with sweat, the foam from her mouth dotting her chest. Feliks cooled her down after each round before starting her up again. When they finally left, the Polish man collapsed into the seat and sighed dramatically.

"She is so difficult to, like, control!" he complained, massaging his fingers into his left bicep.

No sympathy was coming from Alfred's camp, however, and the other guy finally gave up the gambit and chose to remain silent in the passenger seat.

Alfred was too busy puzzling through Whirlaway to really spend time on Feliks at the horses were more important to him than other human beings. And he needed something to distract him from the puzzle that was Arthur Kirkland, since that man was so goddamn confusing that it was almost too much for Alfred to even want to handle.

But he knew that, as with all trouble cases, he would wrap himself in it until he could figure out how to fix the problem and help the person. Arthur was a prime target for this, because something was not right. How could you own racehorses but not want to get anywhere remotely near them?

Alfred had to remind his hand to not drift girlishly to his lips and feel where Arthur's own had pressed against them a few hours ago. Got it had feltso nice, and the man smelt of paperwork and tea, and something comforting. Alfred wanted to pull him closer, into his lap possibly, and push things a little farther along.

But Arthur had been desperate to keep control of the situation, and so Alfred had relinquished his own authority. Arthur probably hadn't had so much power when he was younger if he was so desperate and concerned about it now.

Upon pulling back into the stable area, a stablehand stepped out to remove Whirlaway from the trailer and brush and wash her down. Feliks hopped out of the passenger seat, shut the door, and sped off to go find the Lithuanian guy he'd been speaking to earlier. Alfred also slipped out of his seat and hesitated before entering the house. Should he go in and confront Arthur again? Or should he go in and straight up to his room? Should he even go in at all?

Eventually he pushed the door open and made his way into the eerily quiet house. Nothing stirred, which meant that Arthur was either in his office or not even in the building.

Alfred was unwilling to test where the Englishman could be, and so he travelled up the stairs and walked blithely into his room.

And then he froze, seeing the man he'd hoped to avoid standing at his window, peering at the peaceful stable. "Good evening Alfred," he said absently, his eyes not sliding from the view.

"Er… Hi," said the American uncomfortably, his eyes casting about the room. What the hell was he supposed to do?

Arthur turned to him, his eyes still cool and removed. He was hiding something. "Where were you?"

"Training Whirlaway," stated Al uncomfortably and tapping his hands against the denim of his jeans.

"How is she doing?"

"Fine, she takes curves poorly, but that's something I can work on."

"Hm. When will you be able to train Flicker and Midnight's foals?"

Alfred was momentarily surprised at Arthur's use of Let's Set the World on Fire's nickname, but he said nothing about it. "About a year more. They're not nearly developed enough yet, sir," he was being cold with how he spoke to Arthur so formally, but he was still displeased with how the man had tricked him.

Stupid businessmen.

Arthur sighed. "I'm sorry, Alfred, for deceiving you earlier. I hope that you understand the difficulty with me laying myself out in front of you. That's not something… That's not something that I can do easily. It's going to take a while," he sighed and tugged a hand nervously through his hair, a surprisingly human gesture for one who didn't look as if he were capable of very many human emotions at all.

"Right, well, the chef is almost done with dinner." Arthur moved to press an intimate kiss to Alfred's cheek, shocking the American yet another time that evening. "Get Kiku and meet me in the dining room. I have some big news for you two." Arthur smiled and exited.

Alfred chose to fall to his mattress and think about when he'd last seen Kiku. It had been just before… just before he and Arthur had kissed for the first time. Where had Kiku gone? He hadn't seen the Japanese man at all since that original incident.

Getting to his feet, Alfred forced himself down the stars and back out to the stable, tired and eager to just get some food in him before going to sleep.

Kiku was cantering Belle back into the smooth chamber of the stable when he found a rather frustrated Alfred standing in the middle of it, arms crossed in front of it and an indecipherable expression on his face.

Kiku slowed Belle and peered awkwardly to the right and left before forcing himself to meet Al's eyes. "Sorry, sir, I didn't mean to keep her out so long."

Alfred didn't manage to keep his stoney exterior up for long. "That's alright Kiku. I think we're all figuring things out right now. Just hand her to a stablehand and come back with me. Arthur wants us both to be present at dinner, and hopefully things will end better than they did the last time we tried this." He managed a half-hearted grin and helped Kiku to the floor before meandering back to the house with the Japanese man tagging at his heels. His hands were tucked in his pockets, and he seemed to not entirely be there, his mind off to another realm while his physical body occupied this one.

Kiku knew what that was like, so he chose to remain silent, allowing himself to dwell on Hercules for a little while. He didn't notice that they'd reached the dining room until Arthur's sharp, British cracked through his memories like a whip on a horse's hindquarters.

Kiku snapped to attention and took an eager seat after both Arthur and Alfred had taken care to seat themselves. He peered at the Art, wondering what the Englishman had up his sleeves, as long and decorative as they could be sometimes.

Arthur peered between the two expectant faces that were his jockey and trainer, a delighted grin on his lips. "We're going to be entering a race next week. What do you say? Do we have a winner in our stables?" he peered from one man to the other, waiting to see which would volunteer themselves to respond first.

It was Alfred, though that was hardly a surprise. Kiku was the more soft-spoken of the two.

"I think Whirlaway has a good chance, but Clarence would be a fierce competitor." The light of competition was burning in Alfred's blue eyes like cold flames, and he was working his hands along the edge of the table, his mind whirring and calculating, having been dragged back to the present.

Kiku smiled and nodded his head in agreement with Al's statement. Those two horses were their strongest in the stable at the moment.

And inside, he held a tiny hope that maybe, just maybe, Hercules would be there riding a top horse of his own.

Discussion soon melted into training and preparedness and supplies and distance and times and wheres and who's and whats.

Kiku was content to just sit there and nibble at his meager portions of food, watching the content banter between the Westerners before him.

Alfred was so loud sometimes, and Arthur seemed the only one who was able to quiet the American long enough to get words in edgewise.

By the time dinner was over, a game plan had been developed and horses chosen. They would bring two horses, Whirlaway and Penny, or Clarence as he was so fondly called by Alfred. Supplies would start to be gathered. The track was a few hours from Arthur's track, and so they would need to make sure that there was enough food and water for the journey and that smooth trails existed between their current location and their destination.

And Kiku had to make sure that he kept his weight steady and didn't do anything to injury himself before the big day. He knew that Alfred would bring an extra jockey along just in case, but he hoped that the third one wouldn't need to be used as a replacement for him but rather for the jockey who would be riding the other horse.

Alfred woke up the next morning next to a sleeping Arthur Kirkland.

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Reviews?

Have a nice day everybody. Sorry for the late update. I was too tired last week to do anything.


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